


Le Fantôme Misérable

by opusqe



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opusqe/pseuds/opusqe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All is crazy when the silent Jehan Prouvaire takes the place of the beautiful Éponine Thénardier in 'Il Muto.' His tutor is the mysterious Phantom of the Opera, who wreaks havoc on the Opera Populaire when things do not go according to his plan. But while the Phantom is falling in love with Jehan, so is Christien, le Vicomte de Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Fantôme Misérable

**Author's Note:**

> CHRISTINE ............................................................... Jehan Prouvaire  
> RAOUL .................................................................... Christien le Vicomte de Combeferre   
> PHANTOM ............................................................... Francis Courfeyrac  
> MEG GIRY ................................................................ Cosette Fauchelevent   
> MADAME GIRY ......................................................... Jean Valjean   
> LEFEVRE .................................................................. Lucien Javert  
> REYER ..................................................................... Louis Thénardier   
> ANDRE .................................................................... Edward Enjolras   
> FIRMIN .................................................................... Nicholas Grantaire  
> CARLOTTA .............................................................. Éponine Thénardier  
>  PIANGI .................................................................... Abelard Montparnasse  
> BUQUET .................................................................. Charles Myriel 

“Prouvaire? Any relation to the cellist?” Enjolras looked to Grantaire, his curiosity piqued by the small soprano boy in the chorus. 

“His son, I believe,” Grantaire answered with a nod. “Always has his head in the clouds, I’m afraid.”

The production Grantaire and Enjolras were running was still in rehearsals at this point in time. The ballet part ended not long after their conversation about the Prouvaire boy, and the chorus returned to singing. When Éponine and Marius had finished their duet, the bickering between scenes and songs began. Javert clapped his hands for silence, which soon fell.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he began. “Monsieur Valjean, thank you. May I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Nicholas Grantaire and Monsieur Edward Enjolras.”  A quiet, polite pause followed Javert’s little monologue, and a few people bowed to the new owners of the opera. Éponine stepped forward, Montparnasse close to her side.

Javert nodded, more to himself, and motioned to the two. “Gentlemen, Signora Éponine Thénardier, our leading soprano for five seasons now.”

Enjolras bowed, a slight smile on his face. “Of course, of course. I have experienced all your greatest roles, Signora.”  “And Signor Abelard Montparnasse,” Javert continued.

Grantaire bowed to the tenor. “An honour, Signor.”

“If I remember correctly,” Enjolras started, “Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three of Hannibal. I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favour, you would oblige us with a private rendition.” His eyes flickered to another man, Monsieur Thénardier. “Unless, of course, Monsieur Thénardier objects,” he added sharply.

Éponine turned to her father. “My manager commands…Father?”

Thénardier bowed. “My diva commands. Will two bars be sufficient introduction?”  “Two bars will be quite sufficient,” Grantaire insisted.

Thénardier looked to Éponine, then nodded.

“Maestro?” Éponine asked, voice sweet.

The piano began to play, the introduction sounding beautiful. After a deep breath, Éponine began to sing.

“Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while — please promise me you'll try. When you find that, once again, you long to take your heart…”

She continued to sing, but suddenly there was a loud bang as the backdrop fell to the stage ground. She let out a shrill scream, as did many of the chorus members. Cosette and a few girls looked to each other, whispering “He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera…He is with us. It’s the ghost!”

Montparnasse looked up, anger clear in his face and eyes. “You idiots!” He hurried over to Éponine, touching her arm with his hand. “Ponine! Ponine! Are you hurt?”

Javert scowled. “Signora! Are you all right? Myriel! Where is Myriel?”

“Is no one concerned for our prima donna?” Montparnasse snapped.

Javert ignored him. “Get that man down here!” He turned on his heels to face Enjolras and Grantaire. “Chief of the flies. He’s responsible for this.”

The backdrop was raised about six feet off the ground. Upstage, emerging from where the back drop was meant to be, was Charles Myriel. He held a rope in his hand; the rope greatly resembled a noose.

Javert huffed. “Myriel! For God’s sake, man, what’s going on up there?”

Myriel cleared his throat, grip on the rope tightening. “Please, monsieur, don’t look at me; ad God’s my witness, I was not at my post. Please, monsieur, there’s no one there: And if there is, well then, it must be a ghost.”  Cosette’s eyes immediately trailed upwards. “He’s there! The Phantom of the Opera!”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Good heavens! Will you show a little courtesy?”  Grantaire looked to Éponine, a nervous smile on his face. “These things do happen…”

“Si! These things do happen!” Éponine scoffed. “Well, until you stop these things happening, this thing does not happen!”

Montparnasse hummed his agreement, hurrying to get Éponine’s fur coat from the wings. “Amateurs,” he muttered as he slinked away.

Javert’s eyes followed the two before they returned to Enjolras and Grantaire. “I don’t think there’s much more to assist you, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt.” Turning on his heels, he left without another word. The cast looked to the two new managers of the opera.

Enjolras cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “Éponine will be back.”

Valjean stepped forward now. “You think so, messieurs? I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.”

The various members of the chorus chattered, the girls shivering and shaking in fear.

Grantaire groaned. “God in Heaven, you are all obsessed!”

“He merely welcomes you to his opera house,” Valjean explained, “and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due.”

“His salary?”

“Monsieur Javert paid him twenty thousand francs a year. Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Combeferre as your patron.”

A few of the ballet girls gasped and giggled, looking to each other. Jehan’s eyes widened, and he grabbed onto Cosette’s arm, grip firm and tight.

“Monsieur, I had hoped to make that announcement myself,” Enjolras murmured to Valjean.

“Will the Vicomte be at the performance tonight?” Valjean asked Grantaire, disregarding the other.

“In our box,” Grantaire answered.

“Monsieur,” Enjolras queried, “who is the understudy for this role?”   
“There is no understudy, monsieur,” Thénardier chimed in. “The production is new.”

Cosette blinked and stepped forward excitedly. “Jehan Prouvaire could sing it, sir.”

“The chorus boy?” Grantaire asked, slightly taken aback.

Cosette nodded. “He’s been taking lessons from a great teacher.”

“From whom?” Enjolras demanded.

Jehan hesitated with his answer. “I don’t know, sir,” he admitted.

Grantaire let out an anguished sound. “Oh, not you as well! Can you believe it, Enjolras? A full house — and we have to cancel!”

Valjean cleared his throat and put a hand on the cynic’s shoulder. “Let him sing for you, monsieur. He has been well taught.”  There was a long break that followed, and finally Grantaire nodded with a melodramatic sigh. Thénardier spoke up after the break. “From the beginning of the aria then, monsieur.”

Jehan nodded, and after the introduction was played he began to sing in a very angelic voice. “Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye.   
Remember me once in a while —please promise me you'll try…”

Grantaire looked to his companion. “Enjolras, this is doing nothing for my nerves.”

“Don’t fret, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, holding up a hand.

“When you find that, once again, you long to take your heart back and be free — if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me…”

***

Jehan was practically built for the costume. It accented his small body, and it brought out his eyes very much. He was belting the song, loud and proud.

“We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea — but if you can still remember, stop and think of me.  
Think of all the things we've shared and seen — don't think about the things which might have been. Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned.   
Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do — there will never be a day, when I won't think of you…” 

The crowd cheered, several people shouting ‘bravos’ to the young soprano boy. The loudest fan, though, came from the manager’s box. Sitting with Enjolras and Grantaire was young Christien, the Vicomte de Combeferre. 

“Can it be?” he murmured to himself. “Can it be Jehan? Bravo!” He lifted his opera glasses to his eyes, and his smile grew wider. “What a change! You’re really not a bit the gawkish boy that once you were…” The glasses fell to his side again as he stared, completely awestruck. “He may not remember me, but I remember him…”

“We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea — but please promise me, that sometimes you will think of me…”

***

Backstage, ballet girls and chorus boys alike surrounded Jehan. His face was pink, not accustomed to the attention that was being directed towards him. He handed each of the girls a flower. Off to the side, Thénardier nodded stiffly in approval. 

Valjean approached Jehan, smiling proudly. “Yes, you did well. He will be pleased.” He turned to the dancers and whistled. “And you! You were a disgrace tonight! Such ronds de jambe! Such…temps de cuisse! Here we rehearse. Now!” He took a cane and struck it against the floor. The dancers quickly hurried upstage and began to rehearse as Valjean tapped the ground with the cane.

Jehan quietly walked away, head ducked as he made his way towards his dressing room. Quietly, a few feet away and unnoticed, was Cosette. Jehan had his hand on the doorhandle when he heard a voice. 

“Bravi, bravi, bravissimi…”

Jehan looked up, head turning curiously. Cosette hadn’t heard it, and when Jehan turned he sighed in relief as Cosette approached him.

“Where in the world have you been hiding?” Cosette asked. “Really, you were perfect! I only wish I knew your secret. Who is this new tutor?”

Jehan turned suddenly, entering his dressing room as he fixed his hair. “Father once spoke of an angel; I used to dream he'd appear. Now as I sing, I can sense him…And I know he's here. Here in this room he calls me softly, somewhere inside hiding. Somehow I know he's always with me…He — the unseen genius.”

Cosette frowned, biting her lip gently. “Jehan, you must have been dreaming. Stories like this can’t come true. Jehan, you’re talking in riddles, and it’s not like you.”

He didn’t exactly hear his friend, glancing off as though she wasn’t even present. “Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory.”

She looked away, mumbling to herself, “Who is this angel? This…Angel of music…Hide no longer, secret and strange angel…”

Jehan grabbed her arm. “He’s with me even now,” he whispered, tone dark.

Cosette jumped, looking at him with confusion. “Your hands are cold…”

“All around me!”

“Your face, Jehan! it’s white!”

“It frightens me…”

“Don’t be frightened.”

The door opened abruptly and Valjean stood there, a stern look on his face. “Cosette Fauchelevent! Are you a dancer?” The girl nodded quickly. “Then come and practice.”  Cosette looked to Jehan, kissing his cheek lightly before leaving with her father to join the dancers. Jehan hummed to himself before he was tapped on the shoulder by Valjean, who had a small slip of paper in his hand. “My child, I was asked to give you this.” Once the boy took the note, he exited.

Jehan looked down at the note, reading it. “A red scarf…the attic…Little Lotte…”

***

Christien walked with Enjolras and Grantaire, the three of them laughing and talking about the show. Grantaire had an opened bottle of champagne in his hands while Enjolras had an unopened bottle in his own.

“A tour de force! No other way to describe it!” Enjolras laughed.

“What a relief,” Grantaire sighed before downing some champagne. “Not a single refund!”  “Greedy,” Christien teased. 

“Nicholas,” Enjolras said, “I think we’ve made quite a discovery in Monsieur Prouvaire.”

Grantaire hiccuped, motioning to Jehan’s dressing room as he looked to Christien. “Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte.”  Christien smiled and bowed to them. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind. This one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied.” He took the unopened champagne bottle from Enjolras. 

“As you wish, monsieur,” he said, bowing. He hit Grantaire’s side, and the latter bowed as well before the two of them walked off, bickering with each other.

“They appear to have met before,” Grantaire muttered as he walked off, downing more champagne.

Christien took a deep breath before gently knocking on the door and poking his head in, a small smile on his face. 

“Jehan Prouvaire, where is your scarf?”

Jehan turned, standing when he saw he had a guest. “Monsieur?” he asked.

Christien took a step inside, closing the door. “You can’t have lost it. After all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin…”

The poet’s smile softened. “Because you had to run into the sea to fetch my scarf. Oh, Christen. So it is you!”   
“Jehan.”

The two friends embraced, then laughed together. Jehan took a step back, sitting himself at his dressing table. He had to be honest with himself, though, he quiet liked the feel of Christien’s arms…

Christien took a seat not too far away. “‘Little Lottle let her mind wander…’” he started.

“You remember that, too,” Jehan giggled.

“‘…Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls…”

“‘Or of goblins, of shoes,” Jehan chimed in with a smile. When he spoke next, he was alone. “‘…or of riddles, of frocks…’”

“Those picnics in the attic. ‘…or of chocolates…’”

“Father playing the cello.”

“As we read to each other dark stories of the North,” Christien agreed, shifting his seat a little closer. 

Jehan smiled as he played with his hair a little bit, smiling fondly at the memory. “‘No, what I love best, Lotte said, is when I’m asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…’”

“‘…the Angel of Music sings songs in my head,’” they finished in unison.

Jehan turned his chair around, facing Christien now. “Father said, ‘When I’m in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.’ Well, father is dead, Christien, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”

Christien chuckled a bit. “No doubt of it. And now we’ll go to supper!”

The poet shook his head quickly. “No, Christien, the Angel of Music is very strict.”

“I shan’t keep you up late,” the vicomte de Combeferre promised playfully.

“No, Christien…”

“You must change. I must get my hat, Two minutes, Little Lotte.” He stood up abruptly, hurrying out the door.

“Christien!” Jehan reached for him, but it was too late. He dropped his hand to his side, then picked up his hand mirror and looked at his reflection. “Things have changed, Christien.” He sighed, and let the silence engulf him for a moment. Then, from behind the mirror of the dressing room, he heard a loud voice.

“Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave, young suitor, sharing in my triumph!”

Jehan stared at the mirror, then stood. “Angel! I hear you! Speak — I listen. Stay by my side, guide me! Angel, my soul was weak — forgive me. Enter at last, master!”

“Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there inside!”

As Jehan moved to stand before the mirror, there was indeed a silhouette now discernible in the mirror. His eyes grew bright and he bounced on the balls of his feet lightly, but kept himself a few feet away.

“Angel of music! Guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel.”

“I am your angel. Come to me, Angel of Music…”

Jehan walked towards the glass, now glowing and shimmering brightly. Outside the dressing room, Christien heard the voices and he felt a slight panicking within. He grabbed the door handle and tried to pull it open, tried to twist it, but the door was locked and he was unable to enter.

“Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?” he called, voice frantic.

The mirror opened. There was a bright light, silhouetting the figure of Courfeyrac the Phantom. He reached out, grasping Jehan’s wrist firmly yet kindly. His touch was cold and sent a shiver through the poet’s body, eliciting a soft gasp from him.

“I am your Angel of Music…Come to me, Angel of Music…”

Jehan felt himself fall into the mirror, and it closed behind him. He whirled around on his feet, just as the dressing room door opened and Christien spilled inside, eyes wide with fear.

“Jehan! Angel!”

***

Jehan looked around in wonder, admiring everything in the Phantom’s lair. Candles everywhere. The two were in a boat, but the vessel was now stopping at an island, of sorts. The poet turned back to look at the lake, which was now very still and appeared like glass. He looked back at the Phantom, singing softly to him as he left the boat and crept away, into the mist.  “In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me and speaks my name… And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind…”

The Phantom quickly responded, whirling around to face Jehan, who still could not see him. “Sing once again with me our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet…  And though you turn from me, to glance behind, the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind…”

“Those who have seen your face draw back in fear.   
I am the mask you wear…”   
“It's me they hear.”  They sang in unison suddenly, surprising Jehan. “My spirit and your voice, in one combined: the Phantom of the Opera is there inside your/my mind…”  “In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery…”  “…were both in you…”  “And in this labyrinth, where night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind…”

The Phantom ran to Jehan, pulling him out of the boat and into the circle of candles. “Sing, my Angel of Music,” he whispered, taking him by the hand.

Jehan swallowed before he sang, starting at a lower pitch and slowly progressing until he hit higher notes. The higher the notes were, the bigger his voice boomed. He eased into it, listening as the Phantom whispered encouragements to him.

The Phantom took a seat at the giant pipe organ that was surrounded by candles. Jehan looked at it, finding the scene to be breathtakingly beautiful. A muse for his poems, at least! There was loud booming as the Phantom began to play his music.

“I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music…music… You have come here, for one purpose, and one alone…Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing, for my music…my music…”

Jehan turned to the Phantom, his Angel of Music. The Phantom’s tune had started off somewhat fiercely, but surprisingly it calmed the poet. The song soon turned softer, into what appeared to be a lullaby.

“Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences… Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour. Grasp it, sense it — tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light — and listen to the music of the night…  Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams! Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before! Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar! And you'll live as you've never lived before… Softly, deftly, music shall surround you. Feel it, hear it, closing in around you…Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight — the darkness of the music of the night… Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world! Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before! Let your soul Take you where you long to be! Only then can you belong to me… Floating, falling, sweet intoxication! Touch me, trust me savour each sensation! Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write — the power of the music of the night…”

Jehan, by now, had grown accustomed to the Phantom’s cold touches. They were only inches apart, the Phantom’s chest against Jehan’s back. Jehan then turned, reaching out and caressing the Phantom’s mask; however, he made no attempt to pull it away. In return, the Phantom extended a hand and brushed Jehan’s soft cheek with his knuckles.

There was a moment of silence as their eyes met, and the Phantom broke away and pulled the poet over to a tall mirror. He pulled a tarp from the mirror and there was a life size figure of Jehan. The figure wore a beautiful white tuxedo with tails, and it left Jehan speechless. He started to take a step closer.   And suddenly the wax figure reached out, scaring the living daylights out of the little poet. He didn’t scream, instead fainting. Before his body could fall, the Phantom caught him and carried him over to a bed not too far. His voices was soft as he sang quietly to him.

“You alone can make my song take flight — help me make the music of the night…”

***

The pipes echoed loudly, the Phantom seated before his organ and pounding away at the keys. The look on the exposed side of his face was clearly one of concentration. Every so often he would stop playing, only to scribble some things down. 

Jehan was still asleep in the bed, and there was a music box within his reach. As it began to play, a soft tune, the poet woke up, slowing rising into a sitting position. He was fully conscious, but only half in the moment.

“I remember there was mist…swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake…There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat…and in the boat there was a man…”

Jehan approached the Phantom, his movements slow. His hand stretched out, about to touch the Phantom’s mask, but the spectre turned and nearly caught his poet. This happened at least three more times.   “Who was that shape in the shadows?” Jehan wondered. “Whose is that face in the mask…”

After a pause, Jehan tore the mask away from the Phantom’s face. There was hardly a beat before the Phantom whirled around, towering above the poet. Jehan’s look turned to one of terror, yet his eyes were full of wonder. The Phantom had fine lines going down his face, a few scars from battles in the past. Some were deeper, and a few of them were white scars. It was quite frightening, yet so majestic at the same time. Horrifyingly ugly, yet so terrifyingly beautiful. Jehan swallowed nervously as the Phantom pressed closer, but he was too afraid to move.

“Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You little demon — is this what you wanted to see?” The Phantom’s voice was loud, booming with anger; the echoes bounced off the walls. “Curse you! You little lying Delilah! You little viper! Now you cannot ever be free! Damn you! Curse you…!”

There was a long pause as the Phantom took a deep breath.

“Stranger than you dreamt it — can you even dare to look or bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven, secretly…secretly…” The Phantom pause. “But, Jehan…Fear can turn to love — you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster: this…repulsive carcass, who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly…secretly…” He sucked in a deep breath, hiding his face. “Oh, Jehan…” 

He reached out, arm, extending slowly, for the mask. With no hesitance, Jehan pressed the mask into his hand, their fingers brushing. He raised the hand with the mask, restoring the mask to it’s rightful place on his face. He glanced down to Jehan, then took his hand. 

“Come, we must return — those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you.”

***

A Punjab lasso — more commonly known as a noose — was tied in this piece of rope. Myriel held it out to the girls, a long stretch of fabric acting as a cape. “Like yellow parchment is his skin! A great black hole served as the nose that never grew…” He slung the noose around his neck, putting his hand between the rope and his throat. When he pulled the rope taut, the girls screamed. “You must be always on your guard, or he will catch you with his magical lasso!”

A trap door opened on the stage, and again the girls screamed. The Phantom emerged, Jehan’s hand in his own as he led the poet out of the depths. His piercing gaze met that of Myriel’s, and the man stood stock still. The Phantom’s cape swept over Jehan, and he escorted him away. Valjean entered, pausing to observe the whole affair.

“Those who speak of what they know find, too late, that prudent silence is wise. Charles Myriel, hold your tongue! He will burn you with the heat of his eyes…”

***

There was a scowl on Grantaire’s face as threw the newspaper down. “‘Mystery after gala night.’ It says ‘Mystery of soprano’s flight!’” He took a long drink from his wine bottle. “‘Mystified, baffled Surete say, we are mystified — we suspect foul play!’ Bad news on soprano scene — first ‘Ponine, now Jehan. Still, at least the seats get sold…Gossips’s worth it’s weight in gold…

“What a way to run a business! Spare me these unending trials! Half your cast disappears but the crowd still cheers: ‘Opera! To hell with Gluck and Handel!’ It’s a scandal that’ll pack ’em in the aisles!”   
The door burst open and Enjolras stood in the doorway. His face was red, the blush clearly from anger, and his eyes were filled with a furious fire. “Damnable! Will they all walk out? This is damnable!”

“Enjolras, please don’t shout,” Grantaire hissed, head throbbing already from the alcohol he had consumed. “It’s publicity, and the take is vast! Free publicity!”

“But we have no cast,” Enjolras snapped.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued calmly, sorting through the mail piled onto his desk. “But Enjolras, have you seen the queue?” He picked up two envelopes and furrowed his brow. “Oh, it seems you’ve got one too…” Taking the letter addressed to his companion, he offered it up and Enjolras snatched it up.

Enjolras’s eyes scanned over the page once he had opened it, and he huffed. “‘Dear Enjolras, what a charming gala! Jehan enjoyed a great success! We were hardly bereft when ‘Ponine left. Otherwise the chorus was entrancing but the dancing was a lamentable mess!’”

Upon hearing the other letter, Grantaire read his own. “‘Dear Grantaire, just a brief reminder: My salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost, by return of post, PTO. No one likes a debtor, so it’s better if my orders are obeyed!’”

Both managers exchanged foul looks. “Who would have the gall to send this?” they asked in unison, Grantaire biting his lip. “Someone with a puerile brain!”

“These are both signed ‘OG,’” Enjolras pointed out.

“Who the hell is he?” Grantaire snapped.

There was a beat before the two looked at each other in realisation. “Opera ghost!”

Grantaire said, “It’s really not amusing…”

“He’s abusing our position,” Enjolras practically whined.

“…in addition he wants money!”

“He’s a funny sort of spectre,” Enjolras continued, “to expect a large retainer. Nothing plainer — he is clearly quite insane!”

The door crashed open again, and Christien was standing there with a note crumpled under a tight, angry, frightened grip. “Where is he?” he demanded.

Enjolras cocked his head to the side. “You mean Miss Thénardier?”

“I mean Jehan Prouvaire — where is he?”

“Well, how should we know?” Grantaire demanded.

“I want an answer!” Christien snapped in return. “I take it you sent me this note.”

“What’s all this nonsense?”

Enjolras scoffed. “Of course not!”

“Don’t look at us!”

Christien hesitated. “She’s not with you, then?”

“Of course not!”  “We’re in the dark,” Enjolras admitted reluctantly.

Christien furrowed his brow, lowering his arm. “Monsieur, don’t argue. Isn’t this the letter you wrote?”

It was now Grantaire’s turn to look confused. “And what is that we’re meant to have wrote?” He took a swig from his wine bottle, nearly choking when he realised what he had just missed. “Written!”   
Christien held out his note, and Enjolras snapped it before shooting Grantaire a pointed look. “‘Do not fear for Monsieur Prouvaire, the Angel of Music has him under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.’”   
 The two managers looked at each other. They were both confused, wondering exactly what it meant. What was going on in their theatre?

“If you didn’t write it,” Christien said, remaining calm, “who did?”

For a third time, the door burst open; but this time, it was Éponine, and her face was red with anger but she looked confused, even somewhat hurt. “Where is he?”

Enjolras held out his arms. “Ah, welcome back!”

“Your precious patron, where is he?”

Rolling his eyes, Christien sighed. “What is it now?”

Éponine practically shoved a fourth letter in his face, and he took a step back in response. “I have your letter — a letter which I rather resent!”

Grantaire rounded on Christien. “And did you send it?”

Christien looked taken aback. “Of course not!” he exclaimed, clearly appalled.

“As if he would,” Enjolras huffed.

“You didn’t send it?” Éponine asked.

“Of course not!” Christien sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Grantaire paused. “What’s going on…?” he asked quietly.

Éponine hissed. “You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent‽”

Impatiently, Christien put his hands on his hips and looked at her. “And what is it that I’m meant to have sent?” She handed out the letter, and he took it calmly, his patience waning. “‘Your days at the Opera Populaire are number. Jehan Prouvaire will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take his place.’”

The cynic and his companion exchanged scowls, by now tiring of these notes and strange happenings. Grantaire downed a good portion of his wine, and some spilled down his front as Enjolras snatched the bottle and took a drink as well.

“Far too many notes for my taste,” Enjolras muttered, “and most of them about Jehan!”

“All we’ve heard since we came is Prouvaire’s name,” Grantaire finished, grabbing for the bottle.

Valjean appeared in the doorway, Cosette by his side. They were both sombre.

“Prouvaire has returned,” Valjean stated.

Grantaire sighed. “I trust his midnight oil is well and truly burned.”

“Where precisely is he now?” Enjolras asked, keeping calm.

“I thought it best that he went home,” Valjean said bluntly.

“He needed rest,” Cosette added.

A glint of hope sparked in Christien’s heart. “May I see her?” 

Valjean shook his head. “No, monsieur, he will see no one.”

Éponine moved forward a bit, closer to the two. “Will he sing? Will he sing?”

The man held up a piece of paper. “Here, I have a note.”

The two managers, the vicomte, and the singer all thrust out their hands. “Let me see it!”

Grantaire’s hand snatched it abruptly. “Please!” He scrambled to open the letter, reading it allowed after a beat. “‘Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance…

“‘Christine Daae has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of "Il Muto", you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daae in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent — which makes my casting, in a word ideal.

“‘I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.

“‘I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient servant, OG.’"

Éponine scowled. “Jehan!”  Enjolras glanced at her. “Whatever next…?”

“It’s all a plot to help Jehan!”  “This is insane,” Grantaire insisted.

“I know who sent this.” She pointed at Christien. “The Vicomte, her lover!”

The vicomte rolled his eyes. “Indeed.” He turned to the managers. “Can you believe this?”

Enjolras looked to Éponine. “Signora—”

She abruptly turned, but continued to speak. She was half talking to herself, half talking to the managers. “Oh traditori!”

“This is a joke,” Grantaire exclaimed to her.

“This changes nothing,” Enjolras agreed.

“Oh mentitori!” Éponine cried.

“Signora!” Grantaire snapped.

Enjolras touched her arm. “You are our star,” he insisted.

“And always will be!”  “Signora…”

“The man is mad!”

“We don’t take orders!”  Grantaire turned so he was within everyone’s line of vision, even reduced to standing on a chair. “Prouvaire will be playing the Pageboy, the silent role…”  Enjolras looked up. “And ‘Ponine will be playing the lead!”

Éponine scoffed and marched towards the door, stopping a few feet from it. “It’s useless trying to appease me! You’re only saying this to please me! Signori, e vero? Non, non, non voglio udire! Lasciatemi morire! O padre mio! Dio!”

Valjean stepped forward, a serious look on his face. “Who scorn his word, beware those…The angel sees, the angel knows…”

Éponine pointed an accusing finger at Enjolras and Grantaire. “You have reviled me!”

Christien had his back to the others, wondering quietly to himself. “Why did Jehan fly from my arms…?”

“You have rebuked me!” Éponine screamed.

Enjolras grabbed her arm. “Signora, pardon us…”

“You have replaced me!”

“Please, Signora,” Grantaire begged, “we beseech you…”

Valjean was speaking to no one in particular. “This hour shall see your darkest fears. The angel knows, he hears…”

Cosette squealed “I must see her!” as Christien muttered the same thing.

Éponine was still wild, shouting in Italian. “Abbandonata! Deseredata! Oh, Sventurata!”

“Where did she go…?” Christen whispered to himself. “What new surprises lie in store?”

“Abbandonata! Disgraziata!”  Enjolras shouted, trying to be heard. “Signora, sing for us! Don’t be a martyr.”

Grantaire echoed him. “Our star!”

“Non vo’ cantar!” Éponine shrieked.

Suddenly everything went quiet. Enjolras and Grantaire approached their prima donna, affectionate looks on their faces. Grantaire took a final swig from his wine bottle, draining it.

“Your public needs you,” Grantaire insisted.

“We need you,” Enjolras insisted

Éponine stuck her nose up. “Would you not rather have your precious little ingenue?”

The managers exchanged looks, then shook their heads. “Signora, no! The world wants you.”

Enjolras started, a pleading look in his eyes as he slipped an arm around the singer’s shoulders. “Prima donna, first lady of the stage!”

Grantaire went to her other side, his arm draping around her other shoulder. “Your devotees are on their knees to implore you.”

“Can you bow out when they’re shouting your name?”

“Think of how they all adore you.” The drunkard offered a small smile. “Prima donna, enchant us once again.”

“Think of your muse!” Enjolras exclaimed with a grin on his face.

“And of the queues ‘round the theatre,” Grantaire added.

“Can you deny us the triumph in store?”

“Sing, prima donna, once more.”

There was a moment before Éponine looked from the face of Enjolras to Grantaire. She broke away, an air of acceptance about her.   “Think of your public!” the managers exclaimed. “Those who hear your voice liken you to an angel! We get our opera, she gets her limelight. Leading ladies are a trial. Tears...Oaths...Lunatic demands are regular occurrences! Surely there’ll be further scenes — worse than this. Who’d believe a diva happy to relieve a chorus girl, who’s gone and slept with the patron? Christien and the soubrette, entwined in love’s duet. Although he may demur, he must have been with her! You’d never get away with all this in a play, but if it’s loudly sung and in a foreign tongue it’s just the sort of story audiences adore, in fact a perfect opera! Prima donna, the world is at your feet. A nation waits, and how it hates to be cheated. Light up the stage with that age old rapport! Sing, prima donna, once more!”

The singer muttered to herself, tone proud and triumphant. “Prima donna, your song shall live again! You took a snub, but there’s a public who needs you! Think of their cry of undying support! Follow where the limelight leads you...You’ll sing again, and to unending ovation. Think how you’ll shine in that final encore! Sing, prima donna, once more. Oh, fortunata! Non ancor abbandonata! The stress that falls upon a famous prima donna! Terrible diseases, coughs and colds and sneezes…Still, the driest throat will reach the highest note in search of perfect opera. Light up the stage with that age old rapport! Sing, prima donna, once more!”

Valjean huffed, watching the whole thing go on, and he spoke quietly to himself about the Prouvaire boy. “He has heard the voice of the angel of music…Heaven help you, those who doubt…This miscasting will invite damnation…Oh fools, to have flouted his warnings! Think! before these demands are rejected! This is a game you cannot hope to win! For if his curse is on this opera…then I fear the outcome…Should you dare to… Light up the stage with that age old rapport! Sing, prima donna, once more!”

A few feet away, the Vicomte de Combeferre paced around, still speaking to himself. “Christine spoke of an angel. Is this her angel of music…? Angel or madman? Orders! Warnings! Lunatic demands! Surely, for her sake…I must see these demands are rejected. Jehan must be protected! His game is over! And in Box Five a new game will begin…Jehan plays the Pageboy, Éponine plays the Countess… Light up the stage with that age old rapport! Sing, prima donna, once more!”

Cosette joined in, speaking to her father, who ignored her. “Is this ghost an angel or a madman? Bliss or damnation? Which has claimed him…? Surely he’ll strike back! Jehan must be protected! But if his curse is on this opera…then I fear the outcome…when you once again…Light up the stage with that age old rapport! Sing, prima donna, once more!”

Just outside the room, the Phantom’s voice boomed loudly. “So, it is to be war between us! If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur!”

***

Christien glanced to Enjolras and Grantaire, bowing to them. “Gentlemen, if you would care to take your seats? I shall be sitting in Box Five.”

Enjolras reached out to touch his friend’s shoulder. “Do you really think it wise, Monsieur?” he asked.

The vicomte gave a hearty laugh. “My dear Enjolras, there would appear to be no seats available, other than Box Five.” 

The two theatre managers exchanged wary looks, but nodded and bowed to their patron. Moving as one, they turned to their own box and took up their seats there. Christien sat alone in Box Five, keeping an eye out for the Phantom.

The curtains rose to reveal the scene. Éponine sat on a bed, centerstage, and beside her stood Jehan; they were hidden from their audience behind a curtain. Two men — one a hairdresser and the other a jeweller — stood with Cosette and an older woman; were whispering quietly about the Countess and Serafimo the Pageboy.

The older woman spoke, voice hushed. “They say that this youth has set my Lady’s heart aflame!”

The jeweller laughed. “His Lordship sure would die of shock!   
“His Lordship is a laughing stock,” the hairdresser agreed.

“Should he suspect her, God protect her!” the woman exclaimed.

“Shame! Shame! Shame! This faithless lady’s bound for Hades! Shame! Shame! Shame!”

The small curtain hiding Jehan and Éponine parted, revealing that the two were kissing passionately. Christien covered his mouth with his hand, flushing a bit with jealousy. Jehan, meanwhile, flushed under the stage makeup with guilt.

“Nothing like the old operas,” Enjolras remarked, glancing sidelong at Grantaire. He grabbed his hand and squeezed it softly.

“Or the old scenery,” Grantaire agreed, smiling gently. He returned the small squeeze. 

Enjolras dared to lean closer. “The old singers…”

Grantaire didn’t back away, instead shifting closer as well. “The old audience…”

The blonde shifted closer again, not much space between them now. “And every seat sold.”

“Hardly a disaster beyond our imagination,” Grantaire whispered before closing the distance between them and kissing him. Enjolras broke the kiss after a moment, eyes trailing over to their friend the Vicomte, who eyed them with a smile. Christien nodded to them, and Enjolras leaned in and kissed Grantaire again, a little more deeply this time.

Éponine looked at Jehan, her face bright. “Serafimo, your disguise is perfect.”

There was a knock at the door onstage. “Who can this be?” Éponine wondered.

“Gentle wife,” a voice echoed, “admit your loving husband.”

There was a pause as Éponine skipped over to the door and opened it, an older gent entering. 

“My love,” he declared, “I am called to England on affairs of State, and must leave you with your new maid.” He turned his head a little and muttered under his breath, “Though I’d happily take the maid with me…”

The girl turned, face bright as she spoke aside, “The old fool’s leaving!”

The man was still speaking to the audience. “I suspect my young bride is untrue to me. I shall not leave, but shall hide over there to observe her!” He looked to the actress. “Addio!”

“Addio,” Éponine replied.

The man turned, pretending to leave. When the woman had her back turned, he ducked into hiding. 

“Serafimo, away with this pretence!” When he was out of sight, Éponine reached out and grabbed the skirt Jehan wore. Suddenly, she tore it off. Christien made a face, having liked that maid look on his little flower. “You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband’s absence.

“Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Haha, haha! Time I tried to get a better better half! Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, hoho! If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!”

“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?” Throughout the theatre, the Phantom’s voice echoed.

The audience and cast bickered at this, as expected. Where was the voice coming from? Who was the speaker?

“It’s him…” Jehan breathed, eyes lighting up. “I know it, it’s him!”

Éponine grabbed his wrist, nails digging in slightly. “Your part is silent, little toad!” she hissed, trying her best to go unheard.

“A toad, madame?” the Phantom echoed. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad!”

Silence took over again, a few whispers. The conductor looked to Éponine and Jehan, then started the song again, from the top.

Éponine stuck up her nose. “Serafimo, away with this pretence! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my hu—” Halfway through the word, her singing was abruptly replaced by an inhuman croaking. A faint laughter, belonging to the Phantom, echoed. As Éponine stubbornly continue, his laughter grew. The croaking grew worse, and the actress grew more and more distressed. The Phantom’s laughter grew louder still, more hysterical. The chandelier above them began to shake from side to side.

“Behold!” he cried. “She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”

Éponine directed her eyes to where Enjolras and Grantaire were seated in their box — both of them had wild, messy hair. The look in the woman’s eyes was desperate, tear-filled.

“Non posso piu,” she muttered, “I cannot…I cannot go on…”

Montparnasse flung himself from the wings, rushing to Éponine’s side and taking her in his arms. “Ponine, Ponine…I’m here…is all right…come, I’m here…”

Enjolras and Grantaire quickly hurried from their box to the stage. They exchanged worried glances.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Grantaire called, “the performance will continue in ten minutes’ time…” His eyes trailed to where Christien sat, then to the now still chandelier. “…when the role of the Countess will be sung by Monsieur Jehan Prouvaire.”

Enjolras glanced to the conductor. “In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, we shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight’s opera. Maestro — the ballet — now!”

As the conductor began, the ballet girls ran onstage as the two managers left. The dance began. Behind the backdrop, there were several shadows cast by the Phantom, each more threatening than the last. Cosette noticed them and, despite knowing she could get into trouble, danced out of step purposely. One large, bat-like shadow became apparent, and suddenly something fell. It was Myriel, his body hanging from a noose! 

Screams were heard at this, and pandemonium erupted. The little poet ran onto the stage, eyes wide with fear and body trembling. Christien was out of his box in seconds, making his way to the stage and jumping onto it.

“Christien!” Jehan shouted. “Christien!”

The vicomte’s arms quickly enveloped the shaking poet. “Jehan, come with me,” he whispered, pulling him away.

“No!” Jehan squealed. “To the roof! We’ll be safe there.”

Christien looked down at him, then nodded and escorted him away. Grantaire and Enjolras were attempting to calm down the audience members. “Ladies and gentleman, please remain in your seats!” Grantaire shouted. 

“It was an accident!” Enjolras yelled. “Simply an accident!”

***

The sky shimmered, purples and pinks and oranges. Christien held Jehan tight, the smaller boy still in his costume. The poet finally broke away, still shaking and hugging himself.

“Why have you brought us here?” Christien asked.

“Don’t take me back there!” pleaded Jehan.

“We must return.”

“He’ll kill me!”

Christien took his hand. “Be still now…”

“His eyes will find me there!”

“Jehan,” the vicomte said, voice low, “don’t say that.”

“Those eyes that burn…”

“Don’t even think it,” Christien scolded.

“A-And if he has to kill a thousand men,” Jehan started, voice trembling like the rest of him.

Christien’s arms wrapped around the poet. “Forget this waking nightmare…”  “…the Phantom of the Opera will kill…”

“The Phantom is a fable, believe me…”  “…and kill again!”

“There is no Phantom of the Opera,” Christien murmured, hugging Jehan closer.

“My God, who is this man who hunts to kill? I can’t can’t escape from him…I never will! And in this labyrinth, where night is blind the Phantom of the Opera is here inside my mind…”

“My God, who is this man, this mask of death? Whose is this voice you hear with every breath? And in this labyrinth, where night is blind the Phantom of the Opera is here inside my mind…There is no Phantom of the Opera!”

Jehan pulled away again, his back to his beloved. He shook his head, closing his eyes. “Christien, I've been there — to his world of unending night…To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness…darkness…Christien, I've seen him! Can I ever forget that sight? Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face, in that darkness… darkness…” He paused, looking up to the sky. As he continued, he spoke with more exuberance. “But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound…In that night there was music in my mind…And through music my soul began to soar! And I heard as I'd never heard before…”

Christien shook his head, once again reaching for Jehan. “What you heard was a dream and nothing more…”

“Yet in his eyes all the sadness of the world…Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore…”

The vicomte’s fingers gently touched the poet’s shoulder, his touch soothing. “Jehan, Jehan…” he breathed, voice comforting.

The Phantom’s voice echoed a bit. “…Jehan…”

Jehan’s head darted up. “What was that?”

His head turned, and the vicomte and the poet locked eyes. A small smile touched the blonde’s lips and he leaned in to press a gentle, comforting kiss to his lover’s lips. Jehan returned the kiss lovingly, chastely. He was, however still afraid, and he broke away as he tried to hide his tears.

“No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears. I'm here, nothing can harm you — my words will warm and calm you.” Christien took Jehan’s chin in his hands, offering another small smile. “Let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears.” He kissed away the poet’s tears. “I'm here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.”    
Jehan choked on a sob, grasping his lover’s hand in his. “Say you love me every waking moment, turn my head with talk of summertime…” He glanced down between them, at their hands. “S-Say you need me with you, now and always…promise me that all you say is true—that's all I ask of you…”

“Let me be your shelter,” the vicomte continued, “and let me be your light. You're safe: No one will find you, your fears are far behind you…”

“All I want is freedom, a world with no more night…and you always beside me, to hold me and to hide me…”

“Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…let me lead you from your solitude. Say you need me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too — Jehan, that's all I ask of you…”

Jehan giggled a little, the attempt weak but successful. “Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…say the word and I will follow you.”

Their hands tightened on each other as the spoke in unison. “Share each day with me, each night, each morning…”

The poet raised his eyes. “Say you love me,” he asked in a whisper.

Christien raised one hand to hold Jehan’s face, a smile on his face as he nodded slightly. “You know I do.”

When they spoke again, they spoke together. “Love me — that's all I ask of you…”

The vicomte leaned forward, daringly, and pressed his lips to the smaller boy’s. Jehan returned the kiss before breaking. “Anywhere you go let me go too…” he whispered. “Love me — that's all I ask of you…”

They shared another kiss, this one a little deeper than the last. Jehan melted into Christien’s arms, holding him tight. For a third time, Jehan broke the kiss, but remained close to his lover. “I must go — they’ll wonder where I am. Wait for me, Christien.”

A smile touched Christien’s lips. “Jehan I love you.”

“Order your fine horses, be with them by the door!”   
“And soon you’ll be beside me…”

“You’ll guard me and you’ll guide me.”

They both shared a final kiss before hurrying off the roof together. The giant statue not far away shifted as the Phantom crept out from behind it. “I gave you my music…made your song take wing…and now, how you've repaid me: denied me and betrayed me…He was bound to love you when he heard you sing…Jehan…Jehan….” He took a deep, shaking breath, before standing tall. “You will curse the day you did not too all that the Phantom asked of you!”

Back on the stage, everything was somewhat calming down. Jehan was walking around, trying not to be too open. He tiptoed around. Suddenly, there was the booming laughter of the Phantom. Everyone directed their heads upward, except Jehan, and there were a few gasps as they noticed the Phantom above the stage by the chandelier. The lighting fixture began to shake and the lights flicker. “Go!” the spectre shouted. The lights went out as the chandelier fell from the ceiling. Jehan, previously trying to stay hidden, was running across the stage.

With a loud crash, the chandelier fell at Jehan’s feet.

**Author's Note:**

> END ACT ONE


End file.
